


Faustus Mulder

by mrkeller



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, Gen, generalized spoilers up to "Herrenvolk"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22322968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrkeller/pseuds/mrkeller
Summary: Late one night at Oxford, Fox Mulder wishes his college days were behind him. A mysterious stranger appears, promising to give him everything he wants, if he passes a little test.
Kudos: 4





	Faustus Mulder

Third Floor Student's Room  
New College, Oxford University  
Oxford, England  
Trinity Term, 1982  
Sunday of the Fifth Week  
Evening

A very young and preppie Fox Mulder shoved his hair impatiently off his forehead, then stomped to his sink to refill his water glass. On the return trip, he passed an empty walnut entertainment cabinet, its doors fastened shut. _Thanks, Phoebe, I would have paid you for the stereo and TV, if you'd asked._ He tripped over a sagging leather two-seater placed before it, then sighed. _This room is entirely too small._

He dropped into the ladderback chair at his three-drawer oak desk, exhaling again. Propping his feet on the end of his brass bed, he bent his wandering mind back to the drudgery of translating _The Interpretation of Dreams_ by Sigmund Freud. He had fidgeted impatiently when his Tutor recommended he polish his language skills by rendering the original, highly developed German into reasonably equivalent technical English.

_Slavedriver. I *hate* Deutsche! *Hate* it! A man who used sexual desire as the basis for his psychology ought to have been French, or Italian. That Freud had been Viennese was at least a help, but anything important was still locked into those huge run-together nouns. Which one was the most significant, could any *normal* human being, who spoke a *normal* language with *adjectives*, tell? Then there was this business with the verb at the end of the sentence. Oftentimes there's half a paragraph between the subject and the action!_

Slamming the thick volume shut, he practically threw it to one side, then crossed his arms on the desk to rest his eyes for a moment. _This is no good._ Sighing, he glared at the photo of the Father of Modern Psychology on the back cover, then poked the flat image of Freud's nose. _How did you escape having a schnoz like I do? After all, we share similar heritages. What made *you* so special there, buddy?_

_I wonder what Phoebe's doing right now?_ He snorted. _Probably running around on Adrian Fitzwilliam-Chatsworth, her new lordling conquest, with a telephone sanitizer, just like she snuck around on me with the cabbie's son._ He felt an uncomfortable tightness in his trousers. _No!_ He still wanted to punch something, even though they'd been apart for over six months now. Every time he thought of her he was just as eager as when she first chucked him under his chin, then led him into her Finalist's set by his Regimental striped tie.

Walking to the window that opened out onto the staid, lushly green yard of the Quad, Fox pushed the metal-framed panel open, his overhead light reflecting off the many tiny panes of glass. Ignoring the frequent past admonitions of his scout, he petulantly refused to hold the latch, angrily watching the window swing precariously on its antique hinges. _So *what* that my English isn't smooth and refined. I *like* my New England speech._

"I hate Oxford! I hate England! I wish I was finished, so I never had to see this place again!" He stepped back, brushing the dirt on the ledge from the front of his jeans and the elbows of his black turtleneck sweater.

"You tell'em, mate!" It was his buddy, Owen from Melbourne, two floors below, who sent out a reply that echoed satisfyingly off the honey-colored limestone walls of the cloisters. Owen had been his only friend to see through Phoebe from the first. 'She'll drain you dry, Billy boy, leave you like a dead 'roo in the outback.'

Fox leaned a little further over the greensward. "F*** you, Phoebe Green." He heard the florid-faced Australian's high-pitched giggle float upwards towards him.

"That bad, eh?"

Edmund Russell-Smyth, his neighbour, rapped politely on his door, requesting 'a spot of decorum for those of us who are studying.'

Dropping his head on his fists, Mulder apologized, then explained to the other misplaced colonial, as they often referred to each other, regretfully. "No, it's just Freud and his stupid dreams. I'm not in the mood for fifty word sentences tonight." He shrugged. "See yah."

"Roight."

When he turned to walk to his desk, Mulder stared.

Seated where he had been struggling just a few moments earlier, was a white-haired Don, his tweed overcoat draped across his knees. The tiny lines around his lips and eyes were overshadowed by bushy eyebrows that jutted out like shelves over his watery blue orbs. His grey wool suit was cut very much like the one Freud was wearing in the photograph, elegant and Viennese. Heavily perfumed smoke curled out of his visitor's ivory pipe, a diamond inset where the bowl met the stem, the stone cut exactly to match the ivory and diamond tie tack in his bright red silk cravat.

Mulder wondered if modern Psychology's founder knew he would be immortalized for all posterity in that dandyish, hand on the hip pose, a cigarette in a long holder pinched between his fingers. "Who are you? How did you get in here?"

Like ripples in the wind, the white brows waved. The twinkling in the old man's eyes seemed to reflect delight, but tinges of undefined, yet certain, malice lurked beneath. "Were you serious about what you said just now?"

Fox dropped onto the mattress. "What?"

Three short puffs. "Were you serious about never wanting to see Oxford again? Being done with your work here?"

The younger man shook his head. "No. I have to finish my degree, then do the research for my Doctorate. The Bureau won't take a candidate for Behavioral Sciences without one."

"Ah."

Fox wondered, briefly, why he was pouring his heart out to the stranger at his desk.

"You want to see into the minds of serial killers, understand how they think?" More puffs.

"Yeah. Maybe then I can understand my memories about my sister."

"I see."

Mulder eyed his guest. "Are you a psychologist or something? You do a good impression of one."

The answering chortle was a pleasant, tempting sound, with another one of those unsettling sub-tones. "Some might say that about me." The gentleman rapped his pipe on the volume in question. "But, no I'm not. However, I do have a very long history of close observation of some of the worst people you could possibly imagine."

The American frowned. "Oh."

Standing over Fox, the visitor rested one hand on his shoulder, giving the younger man chills, even on this warm, for late spring, night. "Back to your little wish, Mister Mulder. So, you want to finish your Doctorate, develop the ability to perceive and understand the minds of serial killers, *and* you want to know about what happened to your sister?"

His lips slightly blue, Fox nodded, relieved when the man returned to his chair. "Yeah."

A puff. "A tall order. What could you give up in exchange?"

Mulder wrapped his mother's patchwork quilt around his shoulders. "I don't have much..." He sighed. "I might as well give up women, if that matters."

The old man leaned forward. "Really? Would this have anything to do with that Phoebe creature you were threatening so colourfully just now?"

Miserable, Fox pulled the padding over his head. "After her, I don't much feel like getting involved with another woman again."

Settling back, the Don began thinking out loud. "Now, that would make an interesting deal. All that knowledge in return for a lifetime of celibacy... hum..."

Fox peeled the cotton off one eye, his hair flopping over a square of white flannel with purple flowers. _What happened to the eyebrows? Now they're just like anyone's._ Pulling the blanket closer, he pressed himself against the wall. "Who are you? You're not a Fellow of any of the nearby Colleges, are you?"

A knowing nod. "That's for certain. Let's just say I run long-term, minimum-rent efficiencies for the socially mal-adjusted."

Intrigued, Mulder pushed out of the covering a little more. "Ooh, a slum-lord?"

The light from Fox's reading lamp glinted off a gold tooth, exposed by the answering smile. "No, but I have a few for tenants." He pointed the tip of his pipe at Mulder. "Now, back to this deal we were discussing. You're certain about the near-celibacy?"

The younger man slid forward. "You said *near*. You're not Catholic, are you?"

Roaring with delight, the visitor slapped his free hand on his knee. "Those Papists! I've had more than a passing acquaintance with several of the residents of the Vatican! But no, I'm not. My approach is a little more, shall we say, ecumenical?" He snorted in disgust. "They take vows of chastity, then lock themselves in sealed buildings with only members of the same sex for company. The Fellows of this venerable institution used to live exactly the same way, back when New College was actually *new*. Doesn't give *me* a fighting chance." Composing himself, he cocked an eyebrow at his host. "You're not Catholic, my young friend, are you?"

Chagrinned, Fox rubbed his nose. "I'm not sure what I am, Sir."

The gentleman narrowed his eyes at the student huddled across the room. "All the better. So, I propose a contract between you and me. Everything you want, for a price. You get a free doctorate, free insights into the minds of killers, even, the ability to understand things inexplicable and always, always, get it right. Some will even consider your abilities downright ... spooky. Then, after making the grade, the whereabouts of your sister."

Agitated, Fox stood. "What? Another examination?"

The old man rose, growing slightly taller as the lights from the other rooms winked out. "The test is that you have to lead your life of celibacy, while working in the company of a beautiful, desirable, and totally available lady. And, since Catholic is what seems to weigh on your mind most heavily, that's what she'll be. Game, young Sir?" He stuck out his hand.

Mulder noticed the thick, curved fingernails when he reached to shake it. "I guess. Anything to get Sam back. Who wants to worry about relationships, anyhow?" As their palms met, their fingers folded, Fox shuddered. _What did I just agree to?_

"Then, sign here, I'll be on my way, young Fox Mulder, and you will wake up, almost a Doctor of Philosophy in Behavioral Psychology."

Mulder sighed. "What do you mean, almost? How can I have a PhD in a program offered nowhere in the University?"

The old man blinked. "Oh, I mean, that you have your Viva scheduled for tomorrow." The visitor patted his shoulder. "Don't worry about niggling little details like what the degree is actually in. Leave all that unpleasantness to me." As the gentleman leaned forward, Fox caught a glint of red in his eyes. "I'll keep up my end of the bargain. You'll be able to spout explanations and theories for behaviors and phenomena without anyone having the faintest idea where you come up with them."

The younger man nodded. "Don't forget Sam."

His guest plucked an ebony fountain pen from his lapel pocket to extend towards him.

As he accepted it, Mulder noted a faintly smoky aroma issuing from it.

"Just sign the contract on the first page." The grey-suited figure stepped aside to reveal a foot thick document, bound in scarlet thread, on his desk. The black leather cover was flipped over, with 'Legal Contract' in silver Gothic letters across the top. Below, were two blank lines.

Taking the pen, Fox scrawled his first name, then paused. "Is it too late to add something?"

The predatory light in the Don's face faded slowly. "It depends."

Mulder poked his nose. "Can I add in having less of this?"

Rolling his eyes, Fox's guest sighed, a few ashes floating from the ivory bowl. "I'm not in the miracle business, Mister Mulder, *some* things are beyond my control. If it's a real bother, you can take it up with a higher authority than myself, but I'll tell you this. That proboscis of yours is the result of another arrangement I've made with someone close to you. You see, he wanted security for his family, but he needed a memento of where he'd been, of whom he'd injured to get there." An even longer fingernail flicked a thin line of red down his nose. "That was the reminder, every time he looked at you."

Fox shrugged. "Oh, well." As he finished the r in Mulder, 'Lucius Morgensohn' materialized on the line below. "So, you're really German?"

A prolonged sigh. "To some I am. Not that it really matters."

Mulder turned over a few of the pages in the contract. "This is strange. It looks like it's in English, Old English, or something, but the more closely I examine the writing, the smaller the letters get."

Mister Morgensohn was puffing again. "Ah, well, you see, that's because it was prepared by a rather large committee of my tenants, who, while possessed of much legal expertise, no longer have the opportunity to practice their profession. They were more than happy to draw this up for me. One might even say they've worked at it for ages." A mysterious smile creased the gentleman's face.

Balling his fists, Mulder shoved them in his jeans pockets. "Okay, when do I meet this temptress of yours? If she looks anything like Phoebe, it'll be too easy."

A snap of long fingers, the cabinet doors flew open, then a unit with the latest in Trinitron electronics flickered into silent life.

Fox glanced at his guest, not willing to inquire how he suddenly had a television again.

"As promised. Observe."

Fascinated, Mulder focused on the tiny auburn-haired woman staggering from between the shelves of a college library, as she juggled stacks of textbooks. A pencil clutched between her teeth, she was dressed in a bulky University of Maryland sweatshirt, over faded jeans with deep hems. Dropping the books onto her library table, she adjusted her ponytail before slipping on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

Kneeling by the set for a closer look, Fox frowned, guessing that for a woman as petite as she, nearly everything would be too large. "Her?" A disparaging rap of knuckles on glass sounded in the room.

"The same."

"But, she's such a, a dumpy little bluestocking." Mulder tipped his head. "Now, in the right clothes, maybe. She's okay, but if this is the best you can do..."

The red-head turned to beam at a blonde, blue-eyed girlfriend, standing by the table as they shared a joke. At the punchline, the woman's expression changed from her radiant smile to an open-mouthed, delighted laugh.

Mulder gulped. "Wow! This might be tougher..."

"Than you thought? Hum... A little direct examination is in order, then." Another snap of the fingers.

The co-ed, her posture rigid, materialized on the floor in front of the set. "How did I?" Dana Scully glanced around the room. "What is this, a bad dream? Where *am* I?" Ponytail swinging, she bounced over to the tall, dark-haired student. "Who are you?" Focusing intently on his eyes, she pushed her fists against her hips. "What am I doing in *your* bedroom?"

Bending away from her glare, Mulder squeaked anxiously to the older man, "Is she supposed to know where she is?"

"Don't worry. She'll be returned in a few minutes, forgetting everything that happens here." Morgnsohn waved his hand. "As will you." The mutter was followed by a forceful command. "Be a good host and answer her, Fox."

"You were transported to Oxford, England, Dana." _How did I know her first name?_

After checking her watch, she stomped her sneakered foot. "That's impossible! I had made a note of the time just before Alicia appeared, and it was 6:27. It's now 6:31 in the evening, so I couldn't be in England. Travel at speeds anywhere close to that of light is inconceivable, given present technology. _Star Trek_ is just science fiction. This must be a dream; it can't be real!"

Circling her, exulting in the way she shifted to keep facing him, Mulder grinned. _How did he know I love being around someone who can hold her own in a good debate?_ Crossing his arms, he leaned into her face. "What are you, a Physics major or something?"

Her fists clenched at her sides, her spine ram-rod straight, she glared back. "As a matter of fact, I am. After I graduate, I'll move on to medical school." Her expression somber, she tucked her chin. "I'm *going* to become a forensic pathologist." As Mulder waited, she froze into the pose as if she had suddenly become a mannequin.

The dark-haired student sucked in his breath. _No 'I was kinda thinking of', no 'maybes'. All absolute certitude in a five foot tall bundle of energy._ Fox glanced over his shoulder to see that the Don was growing darker, less kindly, with every passing moment.

"A challenge indeed, Mister Mulder?" At the younger man's frown, he sighed. "Oh, don't worry, she can't hear us now. In the years you work together, she'll drive you insane with all her logic and rebuttals." He tapped his chin with his shrunken nail. "Also, she'll develop an utterly inexplicable propensity for tailored suits and high heels. Like so."

Clapping his hands once, the college garb was replaced by a pale green silk blouse, a tan pantsuit, and matching heels, adding five inches to her height. The hair was lighter, shorter, pulled from its previous curls into a pageboy with a single flip.

Fox collapsed, groaning, on his bed, then threw his visitor a practiced doe-eyed stare. "Years of this? Years?"

The gentleman flapped the contract, gilt-edged pages waving. "Of course. Article MCLVI details the procedures in great length." Flipping through the text, the old man frowned. "There are sections in here devoted to a brunette and two blondes, but those paragraphs make no sense at all, even to me." The Don wagged his finger. "It's too late, you can't back out now; sighs and youthful protests of hasty actions don't phase me." His voice dropped to an evil whisper. "I've heard far more pitiful cries for mercy from the plague victims that used to be brought here."

Covering his face with his hands, Fox rocked back and forth. "This isn't fair!" Rising, he danced around her, sorrowing. "She's so cute, so tiny." Mulder draped his arm over her shoulders. "She fits there perfectly." He faced the suited man, now transforming into someone greyer, more wrinkled.

The ivory pipe was shrinking, changing into a cigarette with a gold band. "I thought you were ready to swear off all women just a few minutes ago, Fox. Merciful man that I am, there are alternatives." He flipped through the vellum pages, before pointing to a single line. "Article CLXIII, section 27: You have unlimited use of videotapes as necessary."

Shocked, Mulder sank onto the bed. "Porn? I spend the rest of my life watching porn?"

"Not entirely." Licking his fingers, the Don turned over more sheets. "Ah, here. Article CXXIX, section 4, paragraph 16: The first signatory is entitled to one free night of unbridled lust, after which his inamorata will die from self-induced injuries."

Mulder's face screwed up. "Eew. How awful."

The smile was now a grimace, the thick brows shrunken to narrow grey arcs, peaked in the center. "Precisely."

Fox gulped. "Gee. But it'll be worth it to have Sam back." Standing, he walked over to Scully, still in her suit and heels. "I won't be totally alone all that time. We *will* be working together. I'll at least be able to touch her, won't I?"

A cackle, any pleasantness in the tone long since vanished. "Oh, yes, indeed." More whiffling of pages, then a tap. "Article CCXLI, section 134, paragraph 10: All gentlemanly and courteous behavior is permitted and encouraged."

Fox chewed his lower lip. _I couldn't bear it if she was hurt, and if what he says about the inamorata is true, then..._ "But, Mister Morgensohn, how will I know what constitutes gentlemanly and courteous?"

His guest took a deep pull from his cigarette. "If it helps any, for many of those years, you will be very close friends. It isn't supposed to be an impossible bargain, after all. Let me see, there was something... Ah, here, Appendix VI, section 17: An arbiter shall be appointed to determine acceptable behavior on the part of the first signatory..."

Fox crossed the room to frown over the old man's shoulder. "An arbiter? Can I at least meet him?"

"But of course. There." The paired down nail flicked at the screen, where a muscled blond man in an insulated apron was loading pots into a kiln.

Grasping one beveled corner of the cabinet for balance, Fox knelt by the set. "Him? This guy? But he looks like a surfer, not an arbiter." Mulder tapped the screen. "Hey, you!" When the man turned to stare right at him, Mulder toppled backward onto the oak floor, gaping in surprise.

The potter shifted around, shading his eyes to see through the glare of the kiln. "Yeah? I'm busy. Gotta be two places at once."

"Are you the arbiter of one Fox Mulder's behavior for the duration of his exams?"

After wiping his face with a worn towel, the man stepped towards him. "Of course. What did you want to know?"

Mulder rolled onto his elbows and knees, spinning to face the glowing picture tube. "Did you know he was giving me a degree in a subject Oxford doesn't even offer?"

The tiny man inside the set crossed his arms. "There's something wrong with that? Where I come from, we rearrange life histories all the time. We wouldn't want to stifle anyone's creativity." Returning to the crockery, the potter adjusted his apron. "After I'm done with you, you won't even be sure when your birthday is."

Fox sat back on his ankles. "What? But I have a photographic memory! My birthday is October 11, 1960." His dark brows drew together. "I think."

Grinning, the Don patted his host's shoulder. "He'll learn to look at the big picture, paint with a broad brush, to ignore useless minutia."

Mulder bent close to the screen. "But the Bureau is a very technical place! How will I be a good agent if I don't worry about details?"

The potter sighed. "Look, kid, it's simple. Ever hear of 'leaps of logic'?"

Deeply troubled, Fox shook his head. "But if who I am keeps changing, how will I know what to think?"

Pursing his lips, the blond man cocked his head at him. "Think anything you want, I don't care about character development or exploring why you do what you do. Just work your cases, that's all that matters to me."

"But, I need to know what to avoid so Scully doesn't get hurt. What are the rules? What do I do?"

Tapping his foot, the potter glared in the younger man's direction. "Okay, if you're worried she'll get hurt, just ditch her, see? Forget she's an agent, and your equal. Run off, don't tell her where you're going. It'll all work out." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Look, I gotta fire these pots."

Mulder sat down, cross-legged, bouncing on his haunches. "No, no! I need rules!"

Impatient, the man sighed. "Rules? Who needs guidelines? I'll make it up as I go along. That's what it says in the contract, after all." Approaching the lens, the potter reached out to grasp the document, but found his hand bouncing off the curved screen. Frustrated, he glared out into the back of the room. "Am I right?"

A chortle. "Indubitably. Nasty unworkables like Bibles and absolutes written on stone are especially troubling to me."

Grinning, the man turned back to his flats. "Good. I'm really busy. I have an idea for a TV series to write up for class tomorrow. I'm gonna be a big producer, someday, just watch." The man's hand raised over his head, the fingers snapped, but nothing happened, so he sighed, looking over his shoulder to the Don in the room. "Just not yet. Do you mind?"

Mulder's guest clapped once, then the picture darkened. As the glow on the screen faded, Scully vanished, shaking another cackle from the eerily familiar wrinkled old man in grey. "That's enough for now." Nearly transparent, his visitor glanced out the window. "It's late, or rather, early. Enjoy your new life, Fox." He lit a new cigarette with a match. "I'll be observing you, almost constantly, from here on out."

"Wait! What happens if, if...I..."

One hand on the doorknob, the other gripping the contract, Mister Morgensohn turned back. "Fail? Why, you'll find yourself right back here, translating that Freud you so detest, working to earn a doctorate in Experimental Psychology. You'll become a forgotten professor at some tiny Liberal Arts college in New England, teaching unappreciative, bored students who make fun of those odd little granny spectacles of yours."

"But..." Mulder was fingering his new wire-framed glasses, tucked inside the collar of his sweater.

"You won't have all the answers materialize grandly inside your head, as if out of thin air. You'll never become an FBI agent, you and Doctor Dana will never meet, never work together, and you'll never find Sam without her. So, think it over carefully, and remember to try very hard to please your arbiter. He can have one or both of you eliminated at any time. Good Day."

As he smiled, Mulder saw the gold was gone, replaced by normal aged square teeth, yellowed and nicotine-stained. "But, I want to have that!" The student pointed to the document. "After all, I signed it."

Blank but for a single line of Latin, the last page hung in front of Mulder's face. "Only one copy permitted, and it's the property of the second signatory. Sorry. But you did shake over it, and a bargain's a bargain." He sent a parting salute with the cigarette. "Till we meet again!"

Feeling distinctly unsettled, Fox wrapped himself in the quilt, then began pacing anxiously in the early light.

\--*****--

Dean's Office  
New College  
Oxford University  
Trinity Term, 1982  
Monday of the Fifth Week  
Morning

"Good morning, Mister Mulder. Have a seat."

"Thank you, Dean." He shook his supervisor's hand, then, properly attired with the graduate's long gown over his suit, Fox Mulder placed his mortarboard on the table before him as he sat. He glanced at the three Fellows across from him, who were passing around a thick document to make notes in the margins. A diamond and ivory tie tack glinted in the sun, capturing his attention.

"We'll be with you in a moment."

Smoothing imaginary creases in the black robe, Mulder forced himself not to eye the Don on his left. The old Fellow was dressed in a grey wool suit, with American styling, much like Fox remembered his Father wearing when he left for his work at the State Department. Finishing one cigarette, the Don lit another almost immediately.

Mulder's eyes narrowed. _Where have I seen him before?_

The Dean turned over a few pages in his Thesis, bound in black leather with scarlet thread, then glanced at the rest of Mulder's Committee.

Nervously, Fox adjusted his white bow tie, but smiled when his supervisor signed the first page of the Thesis. As the white fur hood of a BA hung heavily down his back, it choked him slightly, the sensation reminding him he hadn't really earned the degree whose insignia he wore.

"Well, Mister Mulder, you've done an excellent job here. Just first rate." He held out his hand. "Congratulations, Doctor."

When the grey-suited Fellow lit a new cigarette, Mulder felt absolute certainty settle over him like a soothing balm.

_Everything's going to be just fine._

\--FINIS--

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: Pellinor very kindly took time from compiling her web-page, years ago, to review this story and provide the Oxford details for me. She is directly responsible for the story's existence, so I must thank her for that as well. You see, Dear Reader, when she was assembling the pages for Deep Background, she threw a despairing note on ATXC about how hard it was to attempt to list, let alone reconcile, all the continuity errors 1013 had created in the first four seasons of the Files. She put out a request for someone to come up with a fictional explanation for why that was, with luck, one that had the trademark black humor she preferred for her stories. Her request was my inspiration, and Faustus Mulder was the result, such as it is. Needless to say, any errors regarding her Alma mater are mine, not hers, and I extend to her my deepest gratitude for her efforts, both in her help to me, and in creating that indispensable resource that Deep Background was/is. 
> 
> I wrote this story originally using the pen name "Lise Meitner" so readers wouldn't think it was a part of the Kuxan Sum cycle (it isn't, FWIW). But with Gossamer updating so infrequently, I wanted to place a copy on multiple archives, just in case Gossamer disappears. 
> 
> Originally released to ATXC 3/4/97


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